


Speeding Cars (The Lightning Never Strikes Twice Remix)

by EachPeachPearPlum



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: 2015 Camelot Remix, Amnesia, Angst, Car Accidents, F/M, Love, M/M, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-15
Updated: 2015-04-15
Packaged: 2018-03-23 03:44:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3753244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EachPeachPearPlum/pseuds/EachPeachPearPlum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I got my miracle when you woke up, Arthur,” Merlin says, all his skin flayed away until he’s just muscles and bone and raw emotion on display. “I’m not stupid enough to think I deserve another one.”</p><p>(Despite what the doctors say, Arthur's coma is not permanent or persistent or whatever the heck else it could have been, and Merlin's grateful for that, more than he can possibly say, but just because Arthur's awake it doesn't mean they're going to live happily ever after)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Merlin

**Author's Note:**

  * For [millionstar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/millionstar/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Lightning in a Bottle](https://archiveofourown.org/works/728907) by [millionstar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/millionstar/pseuds/millionstar). 



> So after spending over a week reading and rereading all of your works, millionstar, I settled on this one and wrote part one of this in the space of one rainy Saturday. Then, because why write a thousand words when you can write ten times that, I spent every minute since then angsting over part two. I hope you enjoy it?
> 
> Thanks to the mods for keeping this going long enough for me to find the guts to sign up, and to the girls (you know who you are) for all the many reassurances they've offered me since I started writing this fic.
> 
> Also, I have been told to warn that this is Bleak, though I maintain that the problem is just that the happy ending happens after the fic ends.

Merlin can remember the precise moment that he loses Arthur forever. Not the first loss, the accident, because then he still has hope that everything’ll work out, a happy ending distant and improbable but not impossible. The one that comes after, the one that takes everything and destroys him beyond repair.

It’s a Saturday in November, same as any other, but for the unseasonable warmth out. It’s raining, so Merlin’s clearly still in the UK, but the weather… It hardly matters, really, when Arthur’s held together with tubes and monitors and _beep_ , _beep_ , _beep_ , but it’s odd, unusual, and maybe that’s important. Maybe that’s what’ll wake Arthur up.

Because he will wake up, Merlin believes that more than anything.

The accident is brutal, awful, no one’s fault. That, he doesn’t believe, can maybe accept it in his head but never in his heart.

He should have been driving that night.

They’d been out for a meal, Arthur wanting to celebrate his latest victory in the courtroom, another proud day for the good guys, and Uther had lent him the Merc, on the condition that Merlin wasn’t allowed behind the wheel, ever, _not under any circumstances, son, I’m sorry but no_ , so even though it was Merlin’s turn to drive and Arthur’s turn to have an extra drink, they’d swapped. Merlin had two beers, Arthur was well under the limit, and it was just a freak accident, the other car’s brakes failed, nothing anyone could have done differently, _no one’s fault_.

The other car hit the driver’s side dead-on. Merlin walked away without a scratch, and the doctors say Arthur will never walk again, never have another jury eating out of his hand, never smile at Merlin or fight with him, call him an idiot or kiss him goodnight, never even fucking breathe without the whoosh and hiss of all those awful machines.

It had been Merlin’s turn to drive.

So he brings flowers and holds Arthur’s hand, tells him what happened at work that day, tells him about Gwaine’s latest monumental cock-up, Morgana’s newest charity case, Gwen and Lancelot’s most recent make-up or break-up. He tells Arthur he loves him, that he needs to wake the fuck up now, yesterday, because Merlin knows he’s going to, whatever all those specialists Uther keeps hiring say, whatever shit they spout about _Persistent Vegetative States_ and _minimal chance of recovery_ and _I’m so sorry, Mr Pendragon, Mr Emrys, but I think you ought to consider the options._

It should have been Merlin.

So, “I love you,” Merlin says, his hand never letting go of Arthur’s. “I love you,” he says, pressing a kiss to Arthur’s temple, the only place he’s sure he can reach without jostling tubes and wires and everything important. “I love you,” he says, when he stops by in the morning on his way to work – “You have to go, Merlin, you have to do something other than sit here all day,” Morgana tells him sometime during the first month, then kills any argument Merlin might have managed by adding the most magical of words: “It’s what he’d want, love, you know it is” – and when he returns to the hospital in the evening. “I love you,” he says, spending his weekends wedging himself onto the bed beside Arthur’s prone form, breathing in time to Arthur’s beeps and clicks and _huuuush-kaah, huuuush-kaah, huuuush-kaah_.

Breathing, because Arthur isn’t.

“I love you,” he says. “I’m sorry,” he says. “Please, please, _please_ ,” he says, and for all of it, Arthur is still there, just centimetres from waking up and answering him. Arthur is there, always there, and he is Merlin’s.

And then, one day, an afternoon just like any other, unseasonably warm but still gloomy with rain, he isn’t.

Oh, Arthur doesn’t die, doesn’t waste away to nothingness or go gentle into that good night, leaving Merlin behind to do all the raging Arthur doesn’t, and sometimes, Merlin thinks that would have been easier. He could have grieved, skipping past denial and bargaining because they’ve already proven fruitless, launched straight into anger by screaming and yelling and telling the whole fucking world to go to hell because the only thing that truly matters to him is _gone,_ waded his way through an ocean of depression and out the other side, into a world of acceptance, of living and loving and moving on.

If Arthur had died, Merlin could have let him go, let him be gone.

It’s just another day, an afternoon like any other, November rain and more warmth than normal for that time of year, Uther and Morgana squabbling over something or nothing, Lance and Leon and Gwen playing _Go Fish_ , Elyan and Gwaine and Percival trying to turn it into poker for pennies and matchsticks. Merlin holds Arthur’s hand, tells him he loves him, and stops breathing when Arthur’s hand twitches in his, when Arthur’s eyes _open_.

“Arthur?” he says, groggy and confused, halfway to napping, then again with urgency and delight and, God, Arthur is alive and awake and his, always his.

It’s an ordinary, average afternoon, and for a moment, it is perfect.

Arthur blinks at him, paler than he’s ever been in waking life, eyes sunken and cheeks hollowed, and yet every inch as beautiful as he’s ever been, the love of his whole fucking life.

“Arthur,” Merlin says, as their friends and family surge up behind him, all of them crowding in to see the miracle before them, the world made anew.

“I… Do I know you?” Arthur asks, and it’s a sick joke, Arthur’s occasionally cruel sense of humour rearing its ugly head, but Merlin will forgive him, will forgive him anything right now. It’s sick and cruel, inhuman after Merlin’s spent so long waiting, but it’s Arthur and he’s awake and everything is right in the world.

But Arthur blinks again, a frown carving his forehead in half, and he doesn’t laugh, doesn’t take Merlin’s hand and say his name, low and intimate, call him a moron for believing for even a second that Arthur might not know him. He doesn’t laugh, because it’s not a joke, and Merlin should say something, explain who he is and how much he loves Arthur, how long and how desperately he’s been waiting for this day, see the dawning realisation in Arthur’s eyes.

Merlin takes a step backwards, even more hollow than he was the day of the accident, his lungs emptied of air and filling instead with agony.

 _Please_ , he thinks, as Arthur’s frown deepens, an edge of fear creeping into it. He takes another step backwards, pushing through the blockade of their friends before turning his back, walking out of the room and as far down the hall as he can go before collapsing, crumpling against the wall and sobbing like his heart is breaking.

Appropriate, since it is.

An eternity later, there are arms around him, strong and sturdy, one of the guys trying to hold him up, hold him together like they’ve done all along, but it’s too late now, too fucking late.

There are scans and tests, consultations with doctor after doctor after doctor, neurologists and specialists and actual fucking brain surgeons, until eventually one of them says the word Merlin’s been waiting to hear. _Amnesia_ , the doctor says, and Merlin tries, tries so very hard to smile and laugh and wait for Arthur to recognise him the way he slowly starts to recognise Morgana and Uther, Leon and Gwen and Lance, the people he grew up with and has spent over two decades of time with. He tries, carrying on like before, with Arthur back in their house but not the same room, Arthur sleeping in their bed and Merlin barely sleeping at all, and he knows, he does, that the last eight years of Arthur’s life – _Merlin’s_ years of Arthur’s life – are gone, but he tries to believe they might not always be, that one day his Arthur will come back the way he’s come back to everyone else.

He tries, and even when he gives up it doesn’t matter, not really, not more than anything. Merlin’s waited this long, he can wait a little longer, until Arthur knows what he wants and where they stand and Merlin can wait. He’d wait the whole of forever if he had to, if that’s what Arthur wanted.

It isn’t.

It’s an ordinary, average, utterly awful Saturday when Arthur’s friends and family get him back, when Merlin loses him forever.

.

He still sees him, sometimes, when he arrives too early at a party hosted by one of their friends –

“He was practically my brother-in-law, Arthur, I’m not going to stop spending time with him just because you aren’t together anymore!” Morgana snaps, and Arthur just gapes at her, and at Merlin as well, flinging his arms in the air and almost hitting Merlin in the face with the jacket he’s holding. “Not together anymore, ‘Gana? I don’t even fucking know who he is!” he shouts, while the man standing behind him, the man leaving with him or maybe just _with_ him, looks deeply uncomfortable.

– or is just a few minutes too late when he goes by Gwen and Lancelot’s to pick up their daughter and baby son for the evening –

“Arthur Pendragon, don’t you dare suggest I’m the kind of mother who’d leave my children with someone who wasn’t totally capable of looking after them. Don’t you fucking dare!”

– so that the others can go out celebrating yet another victory in Arthur’s legal arsenal.

Sometimes, Merlin sees him and Arthur knows he’s there, and Merlin has to bear the awkwardness, has to hear his friends angry on his behalf, has to see the giant rift that the accident and the aftermath has torn between them all. Other times, though, Arthur doesn’t know, and Merlin just watches, sees Arthur happy, sees Arthur laughing and living and falling in love, the way he once fell in love with Merlin.

Arthur’s there, alive and awake, walking and talking, a miracle that renders all other applications of that word meaningless.

There were two people in the car the night of the accident, but only one of them survived.


	2. Arthur

After asking him the obvious questions (What was it like?/Did you hear people talking to you?/Do you really not remember him at _all_ , Arthur?), there’s one that no one, friend or family or stranger, seems to think is off limits. _Did you dream?_ they ask, whether Arthur’s known them an eternity or if he’s has only just been introduced, and none of them seem to realise. Being in a coma isn’t like being asleep. Being in a coma is like being dead.

He lies, of course. No one wants to know that, so Arthur spins them a pretty tale of sights and sounds, chucks in the smell of toast every now and again, tells them it was like going home after a long day at work, tells them he felt safe and loved and at peace.

Hell, maybe it was like that, and he’s just forgotten that along with so many other things that people tell him were true.

He doesn’t think so, though.

.

“Do I know you?” Arthur asks, staring into blue, blue, _blue_ eyes, far too close to his own, and for a second there’s something there, the tiniest flash of déjà vu, but then he blinks again and it’s gone, obviously. He’s in a hospital, clearly, probably fell off his bike on the way home from college or dived too hard playing rugby and hit his head, and this man is a nurse or a doctor or something.

Except the man just looks at him, at first like he thinks Arthur might be joking, then like he _hopes_ he is, and then… Arthur doesn’t have words for it, can’t see how anyone possibly could, and then the man turns his back and walks out of the room.

“Fucking hell, princess,” says another man, shaking his head, while a third man skirts around all the people in Arthur’s room to follow the first guy out. “That’s really not funny.”

Arthur swallows, flinching, and it’s not like it’s the first time he’s had an adult speak to him in that tone, not like he never gets told off for talking in class or yelled at by his father for stuff like not doing the washing up when it’s his turn, but generally the adults telling him off don’t use language like that.

“Gwaine,” one of the two women in the room chides, briefly shifting her glacial gaze from Arthur to the loudmouth. “Go find a doctor, now,” she instructs, turning back to Arthur without waiting to see if Gwaine obeys. She steps closer to Arthur, sweeping dark hair from her face and looking at him with fierce, _familiar_ eyes. “God, Arthur, it’s good to see you awake.”

“Annie?” Arthur asks, and he hasn’t called her that in years, not since they were kids, but this woman with Morgana’s eyes and Morgana’s hair is older than his sister should be, mid to late twenties, and Arthur could really, really do with some reassurance right now.

“It’s me, Wart,” she says, sliding her hand around Arthur’s and clutching tightly. “I’m here. We’re all here.”

.

The doctor gawps at Arthur like it’s her first day on the job and he’s her very first patient, then proceeds to offer him a shaky, uncertain smile and shine a bright light in his eyes, all without uttering a word to him. She looks at the machine next to him that spews out reams of paper covered in zig-zagging lines, checks the chart tucked into a pocket at the foot of his bed, stares some more, then walks out of the room.

“What happened?” Arthur asks, still trying to blink away the fluorescent blobs in his eyes, looking from the woman who answers to Morgana’s name to the man with less hair and more wrinkles than Arthur’s dad has. “Why am I here?”

“You were in a car accident, Arthur,” the old man answers, and the unminced words sound like Uther even as the tone is far too gentle, like the age that’s come upon him suddenly has mellowed him, too.

“A car accident…” Arthur echoes, unable to remember it, not when or where or how, and it’s horribly unfair, isn’t is, that he can fail his driving test twice and still get hit by a car. “The man who left,” he starts, thinking of the look on the man’s face when Arthur woke up, guilt and sorrow and pain and more, much more. “He was the driver?”

“You were driving, Arthur,” his father says, frowning, but he’s not angry. Just confused, and maybe a little sad.

It’s Morgana who explains, though, answering the question Arthur didn’t ask, but not asking isn’t the same thing as not wanting to know. “Merlin was in the car with you, Arthur,” she says, tentative, glancing up at their father and only continuing when Uther nods. “You were out for dinner together.”

It’s Arthur’s turn to frown, Arthur’s turn to be confused, because, yes, going for a dinner with a man is something he’s thought about, but it’s a distant possibility, far into his future and dependent on him finding the balls to out himself to someone other than Gwen when they broke up a couple of months ago. He’s thought about it, going out with a guy his own age, smart and good looking and good enough at sport to give Arthur a run for his money, but not anytime soon and definitely not some skinny, weedy man with bat ears and a stupid name and eyes so blue they’d put the sky to shame. “Dinner? As in…?”

“As in a date, son,” Uther says, and Arthur can’t decide if the emphasis there is real or imagined. “Merlin’s your boyfriend.”

 _But I’m not out_ , Arthur thinks, though the doctor returns before he can actually be thick enough to say it, bringing with her a second doctor, and a third. Together, they set about disconnecting Arthur from the mountain of machines that surround him, pausing frequently like they’re waiting for him to drop dead or maybe just to stare at him some more.

“We’d like to run some tests, if that’s okay, Mr Pendragon?” the oldest of the doctors says, a stately woman with greying hair, and it takes a moment for Arthur to realise it’s not his father she’s asking.

“Okay?” he says, horribly uncertain, but it’s apparently enough; within minutes, he’s almost completely disentangled and being wheeled down an endless maze of corridors to a room with more machines that beep and ping and hum loudly until his head hurts so much that he wishes he was still asleep.

.

They look at his blood and his brain, inject him with dye and run the scans over again, check his chart and his eyes, his blood pressure and his breathing, poke and prod and pester until Arthur wants to yell at them to leave him the hell alone. They ask question after question, too, _how does this feel_ and _can you see this_ , _does anything hurt_ and _what’s the last thing you remember_.

The man – Merlin, Arthur’s _boyfriend_ – comes back at some point, drifting into the corner of Arthur’s hospital room like he’s trying to be invisible, staring like he wants Arthur to see him more than anything else. The others follow him in, Gwaine leaning against the wall and glaring at everyone while the other man wraps an arm around a grown-up version of Gwen, resting his other hand on the curve of her stomach, and by now Arthur knows something is wrong, really wrong. His father is balding, his sister has to be pushing thirty, the girl Arthur dated through most of secondary school and college is pregnant ( _again_ , he learns later), no one in the room is under twenty, and the boyfriend Arthur can’t quite wrap his head around keeps staring like he needs Arthur in order to live.

Eventually, the first doctor asks the question Arthur’s been waiting for, the one he already knows he’s going to get wrong.

“Mr Pendragon,” she says, calm and professional, like the hours of examination and interrogation have been enough for her to remember how she ought to be. “Can you tell me how old you are, please?”

.

Twenty-five, Morgana tells him, later, when the doctors have done all they can for the day and Leon and Gwen and Gwen’s Lancelot and all the other people who are half-recognised ghosts have gone, when it’s only her and Uther and Merlin, the boyfriend Uther seems so totally okay with, the man his sister treats like he’s family.

Twenty-five, she tells him, and Arthur isn’t dumb enough to believe that she might be lying to him.

Eight years of his life, gone.

“I’m sure the doctors will figure it out,” Morgana says, and though it’s Arthur’s hand she’s holding, it’s Merlin she’s looking at. “They’ll work out why you can’t remember, Arthur, and they’ll fix it.”

Time, it seems, has done nothing to douse his sister’s fierceness, and between the resolution in her eyes and that in her voice, Arthur finds himself believing her, almost. “Yes,” he agrees, because he has to, because the idea that almost a decade can be wiped beyond recovery from his memory is inconceivable. A Levels and university, his eighteenth and buying his first legal beer. Voting and backpacking across Europe, passing his driving test, graduation and job hunting and dating and his first time with a bloke and Jesus, God, _please_.

“They’ll fix it,” he says, and, _They have to_ , he doesn’t, but he’s thinking it, is fairly sure they all are.

.

Over the following days, they run even more tests, impossibly many. There are more machines, each larger and more complex looking than the one before, more whispered conversations between doctors, more glances and frowns in his direction, and through it all the man, Merlin, is there, watching him. Waiting.

There’s always someone with him, like he’s afraid of seeing Arthur without a chaperone, someone to provide the words that he can’t seem to manage. Usually it’s Morgana, who seems set on terrifying every medical professional who feels brave enough to enter Arthur’s room, or Gwen, who still can’t abide a prolonged silence and instead tells anecdotes that invariably break off midway through when she remembers he doesn’t know half the people she’s talking about.

It’s three days before the doctors allow Arthur to stumble his way into a wheelchair and have Morgana push him outside. They walk around for a bit, with Merlin trailing just behind like he’s not sure he’s allowed to catch up, until eventually Morgana parks his chair up next to a secluded bench (as secluded as a hospital garden gets, anyway) and sits down. “You couldn’t go get us a coffee, could you, Merlin?” she says, her tone making it so very clear that this isn’t actually a request.

He stares at her (finally, someone else’s turn), nods, and trudges off, his shoulders slumped, hands wedged in his pockets and head down, and Arthur breathes a sigh, suddenly so much less tense.

Morgana leans in, resting one hand on the armrest of Arthur’s chair, the other tap-tap-tapping against her knee, the only sign of discomfort she expresses, and even then it’s measured, controlled. “Right,” she says, soft and steady, calm, and Arthur feels panic fluttering at his insides. He’s not been alone with his sister yet, not been alone with anyone, and he’s known, somehow, that they’ve all been waiting for a moment the same way he has, but now that it’s here he can’t help but wish it wasn’t. “Ask me, Arthur.”

From the way Morgana’s looking at him, she seems to think the instruction – not question, not even close, and although the world might have changed incomparably from what Arthur thought it was, his sister’s eerie gaze as she makes demands is still exactly the same – is an easy one to follow. There’s so much he needs to know, though, so much that’s different, but even if he gets hopelessly lost and there’s a huge queue, it still won’t take Merlin any longer than ten minutes to get Morgana a coffee. Arthur doesn’t have enough time.

Of course, he’s got eight years to catch up on: nothing less than that is ever going to be long enough.

“Arthur?”

“How long?” he manages, only a tiny shake to his voice.

“You met him in second year,” she answers, still tapping, steady as a heartbeat. “I don’t know for sure how long you’ve been together, but you didn’t tell Father you were interested in men until you were home for Christmas in third year, and I always figured you made Merlin wait until you were out before you made a move on him.”

Arthur nods, allowing this a moment to sink in, hoping if he gives it long enough it’ll trigger a memory of some kind, maybe the fear of telling his father or the uncomprehending relief of Uther’s apparent acceptance. Perhaps if he waits, it won’t be a mystery to him, the events of someone else’s story: he’ll remember if Uther was okay with it from the offset or if he threatened to disown Arthur and had to be talked into seeing reason by Morgana, if he was disappointed or shocked or if he said he’d known all along and was pleased Arthur finally told him.

There’s nothing, though, not even a shadow, and Arthur tries to pretend his eyes aren’t itching, that there isn’t a lump in his throat that feels an awful lot like the one there in the months after his mum died.

“Why?” he asks, finally reaching out and covering Morgana’s hand with his own, as if he thinks without the flicker of motion in the corner of his eye his brain might work better.

“Why do I think that, or why did you do it?” Morgana smiles, the same wry, not-quite-superior smile she’s always had; Arthur shrugs, not entirely sure which question it is, and his sister’s smile becomes a laugh, clear and beautiful as a bell. “The answer’s the same either way,” she says easily. “Merlin’s always said you’re an idiot, and far too noble for your own good, but… God, Arthur, the way he says it, the way he _looks_ at you. I can’t imagine loving someone that much.”

 _No_ , Arthur thinks. _Neither can I._

“And I…” he pauses, not entirely sure how to carry on, but then the fact that he’s having to ask his sister how he met his boyfriend of the last four years is already awkward enough that he might as well barrel on anyway. “I love him as well?”

Morgana’s smile falters, her lightness floating away on the breeze, replaced by seriousness, absolute determination. “Arthur,” she says, her tone so utterly matter-of-fact, almost painfully so. “If I only believe one thing in my entire life, it’s that Merlin’s feelings are entirely reciprocated. The two of you are the closest thing to perfect I’ve ever seen.”

The thing is, her conviction ought to be contagious, ought to be the kind of faith that has Arthur believing as well. Not remembering, that’s something science and medicine will take care of, and – no matter how convincing his sister is – her words alone aren’t going to bring back what Arthur’s missing, but… He should believe her, should at least be able to try.

“What about you?” he asks, needing so desperately to change the subject, ideally without Morgana realising he’s doing it, and the best way to do that is to pretend he’s only trying to fill in a few more of the gaps in his head. “Are you still picking the guys you date based on how much Father will disapprove of them?”

Morgana laughs, light again, and Arthur thinks his escape has probably gone unnoticed, or, because Morgana always sees far too much, it has at least been allowed to pass without comment. “Pretty much,” she says, her toes grazing forwards and back across the path beneath her feet, but it’s less obtrusive than the tapping was; Arthur releases her hand, finally relaxing now that it’s not he and Merlin they’re discussing. “But then I’m fairly sure Uther chooses his next wife based on how much we’ll hate her, so it’s no more than he deserves.”

Arthur waits for her to say more, maybe for a mocking commentary on all the women Uther’s dated in the last eight years, but she doesn’t speak, just stares into the distance, and Arthur knows before he looks up what – _who_ – it is she’s looking at. He follows her gaze to see Merlin approaching, carrying a cardboard tray holding three cups of coffee. Arthur tries not to flinch, sink down in his chair, or react in any way at all, but he’s pretty sure he fails; Morgana knocks her hand gently against his arm, her expression halfway to a smile. “It’ll be okay, Wart,” she says, with the same conviction as before. “You’ll get it back.”

“Yeah,” he says, the contrast between her tone and his beyond description, and they sit in silence as Merlin gets closer to them.

“Mocha,” Merlin announces, placing the first cup in Morgana’s outstretched hand, then holds out the second one to Arthur, somewhat more hesitantly. “I got you your usual, Arthur,” he says. “I hope that’s okay?”

“I’m sure it’ll be fine,” Arthur answers, not pointing out that he doesn’t actually drink coffee, mostly because he’s too busy trying to hold steady under the realisation that this is the first sentence – second, technically, but he’s choosing not to count the one after he first woke up – he can remember speaking to the man who is apparently the love of his life. “Thank you, Merlin,” he adds, cradling the cup in both hands, feeling the warmth seep into his fingers.

Merlin smiles a sudden, brilliant smile, so intense that Arthur finds continued eye contact impossible. He looks down, away, and by the time he peels his gaze from his shoes Merlin has retreated, settling himself on the bench at the other side of Morgana.

“We were just talking about Uther’s collection of wives,” Morgana says, and now starts the commentary Arthur was expecting a moment ago, only it’s accompanied by Merlin’s observations as well, beginning cautiously and becoming startlingly witty as he gains confidence.

It’s five minutes later, during a lull in the conversation, when Arthur takes an idle, almost accidental sip of the drink Merlin bought for him, and he knows he doesn’t like coffee, has never drunk more than a mouthful from any cup of it in the seventeen years he can remember being on this earth, but this… It’s fucking perfect, and that scares the shit out of him.

.

Somehow, that conversation seems to open a dam in Merlin, giving him permission to exist around Arthur, turning from a silent presence to an actual person in Arthur’s hospital room.

He shows up way too early on Wednesday morning, alone, greeting all the nurses by name and charming his way in to see Arthur way before visiting hours begin. “I thought you might like these,” he says, holding out a law textbook so huge Arthur is almost surprised he managed to carry it up here and, bewilderingly, a battered Pratchett paperback. “I didn’t know which law book was the best, so I just picked the one that had the most notes in it, and you were reading the Pratchett before the accident. Your bookmark’s still there, I haven’t touched it… Though I guess that doesn’t matter too much, really, sorry.”

“Oh,” Arthur manages, after the silence has extended into millennia and Merlin is well on the way from bright to borderline invisible again. “Thank you?”

Merlin beams, extraordinarily present again, happiness oozing from every pore of his skin, like Arthur’s uncertain gratitude is all he’s ever wanted in life, and there’s the same awkward, uncomfortable fear in Arthur’s stomach as there was the day before, when Merlin knew better than he did what he’d like to drink.

“I have to go,” Merlin says through his smile. “Work, you know, but I’ll be back later?”

He trails off like it’s a question, maybe like he’s asking for permission, and Arthur knows he can’t really say no, not when he apparently came out for this man and has been living with him for he doesn’t know how long. He can’t, it’s not right or fair or kind, but he’d sort of like to anyway.

“Where is it that you work?” he asks instead, because even if he knows he shouldn’t say no, he can’t quite bring himself to say yes either.

Merlin’s smile falters, as though he’s somehow forgotten that Arthur doesn’t know this, only to return full force, though it seems a little less natural now. “St Jude’s,” he says, seeming to think that counts as an answer, like Arthur can’t think up a whole list of places a name like that could belong to: a hospital (though Merlin’s confused expression during the many meetings with doctors suggests he knows nothing about medicine), a prison (equally unlikely, since Arthur’s pretty sure even his seventeen year old self could snap Merlin like a twig), a fire station (but again with the twig-snapping)…

“Of course,” Arthur says, finding it easier to pretend Merlin’s reply has actually closed his question. “You should go,” he adds. “You wouldn’t want to be late.”

.

He reads the law book, at first flicking idly from page to page, skipping down the index at the back to find topics that sound worth bothering with. By the time Morgana waltzes in during her lunch break, though, he’s devouring it, picking through the notes he’s scribbled in the margins, scrawling more on a pad of paper he’s pinched from the nurses.

“Afternoon,” she says, plonking a cup of coffee, a diet coke and two M&S sandwiches on the stand by his bed. “Having fun?”

“Yes, actually,” Arthur answers, using his pen to mark the page he’s on before looking at her. “I guess I worked up the guts to tell Father I didn’t want to work for him, then?”

Morgana laughs, prodding his leg until he shuffles over far enough for her to perch on the bed beside him. “Took you bloody long enough,” she says, smirking. “He was furious for months, up until the point where he finally realised he has two kids, one of whom graduated from the best business school in the country and actually wants to be a part of Pendragon.”

“It’s not that I don’t want to,” he snaps, too quickly and somewhat less calm than his sister probably deserves. “I just… don’t think he’s always right.”

“Oh, he isn’t,” Morgana agrees, ripping into one of the sandwiches and digging in, as lacking in manners as she ever was; the girl Arthur remembers can be polite when she wants to, the epitome of dignity and sophistication if it suits her, but without an audience to impress it seems his sister still doesn’t give a shit. “But we’ve learned to pick our battles.”

“You fight the ones you think you can win?”

“I can win any argument I care to have, Wart,” she says imperiously, then softens her smile, even as her voice surges in intensity. “ _We_ fight the battles that are worth winning.”

.

Just over a week after he wakes up, the multitude of doctors manage to come to some kind of conclusion. They don’t have any idea why he woke up when he did, they tell him, or what’s causing his amnesia, or – though they don’t say this part, Arthur and everyone else manages to infer it anyway – how they might go about fixing it.

Other than that, though, he’s apparently in remarkably good health for someone who has been in a coma for the last eight months, and – as long as he comes in for even more brain scans once a fortnight – there’s no reason at all for him not to go home.

They all just skip right over the fact that he’s got no idea where that is nowadays.

.

The house Morgana stops outside – _his_ house – is largely nondescript, neither large nor small, set a decent distance from those neighbouring it on either side. It’s a little blander than Arthur was expecting, a little more average and normal and grown-up, a well-maintained lawn in front of it, a gate presumably leading around to another garden at the back of the house. One car sits on the drive, a slightly dirty Focus, parked not quite parallel to the wall, and Arthur figures it’s probably Merlin’s, because Morgana’s already told him a ball-park figure of how much he’s earning and it’s enough to afford something a little more high spec than an ’04 plate Ford.

“You don’t have to, Arthur,” Morgana says, and she’s tapping again, this time against the steering wheel. “You can stay with me until you start remembering more. Merlin doesn’t expect you to move straight back in with him.”

 _And what if I never get it back?_ Arthur thinks, though even considering the possibility feels awfully like tempting fate, like asking _what could possibly go wrong?_ of a plan more full of holes than a sieve. It’s too late to worry about something so illogical, of course – he can’t magically go back thirty seconds and unthink it, just like he can’t go back however many months and unhave the accident that left him like this – but now that the possibility is fully there in his mind, it’s all there is.

It's true, he could go to Morgana’s, or their father’s, and just sit there waiting for the day the wall around that part of his mind vanishes, the day the doctors fix his brain or it fixes itself. He could wait and hope, just put his whole life on hold until that day arrives, but what if it doesn’t? Does he give up on the last eight years of his life, on a job that he excels at and a relationship his sister says is pretty much perfect? Start over, go back to university and get his degree again, find a new job and a new house and a new boyfriend he’ll actually know how he met and asked out and fell in love with?

“They said being around familiar things might help,” Arthur says, because even though Morgana was in the room when his doctors told him that, it’s easier to repeat it than say anything else. “Besides, if I love him as much as you say you do, I’ll end up moving back here as soon as I remember his last name.”

From the way Morgana looks at him, Arthur thinks that last sentence came off slightly less flippant than he intended it to be, but after an assessing stare that continues just a little too long, she nods. “Right you are, Wart,” she says, unfastening her seatbelt and opening the door. “Let’s go.”

She hefts Arthur’s bag out of the boot before he can protest (though his arms maybe aren’t up to all that much heavy lifting just yet, it still feels rude to leave carrying his things to his sister), then scoops up the stack of books Merlin had brought to the hospital for him. “You’ll need to get the door,” she says, as he stands in vague uncertainty by the car. “Hands are a little full.”

“Right,” Arthur agrees, ascending the two steps from the driveway to the door, then spends a moment trying to work out what he ought to do next. Even if he needs someone else to identify it for him, it’s still his house, which makes knocking seem stupid, but he can’t just walk in uninvited, assuming the door is even unlocked.

“Arthur?”

“It’s fine,” he says, even though it isn’t, raising his right hand and rapping twice, hard enough to sting his knuckles, harder than he means to. “It’s fine,” he says a second time, quieter, his ears only, while his heart thuds against his ribs and his lungs start acting like they want back all the tubes he was hooked up to just over a week ago.

There’s a muffled thud of sock-covered feet on hardwood floors, followed by the scrape of a key in the lock, the rattle of a security chain being slid free, and then, far too quickly, the door is open. Arthur forces himself to meet Merlin’s gaze, tells his lungs to man the fuck up, and pulls something close to a smile onto his face.

Merlin stares for a minute, then breaks into the kind of grin that would make a Disney princess look depressed in comparison.

.

“Tea?” Merlin offers, standing in the middle of a kitchen that Arthur suspects probably isn’t clean enough to cook in. “Or water, or juice, there might be some pop in the fridge, I’ve- I’ve not been shopping in a bit.”

Morgana clucks disapprovingly, leaving the books and Arthur’s bag in the hallway before joining them in the kitchen. “We talked about this, Merlin,” she says, sounding terrifyingly like Arthur’s earliest memories of their mother. “Get started on the washing up, I’ll make the drinks. Arthur, go put your things away.”

Merlin doesn’t argue, just obeys, clearing a stack of plates, bowls and glasses from the sink before turning on the taps, apparently having forgotten that this is his house, not Morgana’s. Arthur stares for a minute, confused, before deciding that there might be a good reason why Merlin isn’t arguing with Morgana, and that it’ll be slightly less awkward to figure out where everything in his house is now, without an audience, than it will be later, with Merlin doing his very best shadow impression again.

The living room seems to be largely unused, judging by the undisturbed (though admittedly thin) layer of dust on the coffee table, the absence of mugs containing a centimetre or two of icy tea, and the fact that the disproportionately huge TV is turned off at the wall. There are a good few DVDs lying around, a couple of books, but nothing particularly noteworthy, nothing that even looks like it might have been moved in the months Arthur’s been in hospital; Arthur moves on quickly, feeling a little like he’s trespassing.

The dining room seems more lived-in, the table strewn with a semi-organised chaos of the same kind of exercise books Arthur remembers writing in just a couple of years ago. One lies open, a red biro sat uncapped on top of it, and Arthur has to wonder what kind of school names itself after the patron saint of lost causes. Equally weird is the idea of Merlin – shadow-hider, corner-lurker, generally lacking an aura of confidence _or_ competence – standing at the front of a horde of teenagers and expecting them to do as he tells them to.

It’s a question answered, at least – Merlin the teacher, Mr Whoever-He-Is – though it opens up a million others about how Arthur could have crossed paths with him, how the two of them even have anything in common, but they must, surely they must, this has to make sense somehow.

After that, he goes upstairs, wondering which of the five doors surrounding him leads to somewhere he ought to leave his bag. The first, immediately in front of him, leads to a bathroom, small and mercifully clean, particularly in comparison to the kitchen, a lonely toothbrush sat in a cup on the sink, a single towel hanging on the back of the door, a solitary sponge dangling from the shower above the bath. It’s not the bathroom of a house with two residents, and Arthur leaves it quickly, feeling even more like an intruder than he did before.

He turns left, not really sure why, and opens the next door to find an airing cupboard, trailing his left hand along the banisters beside him like he’s in a maze, trying not to get lost. After that is a small bedroom, clearly unoccupied, a single bed against one wall, a Roman blind over the window, the world’s most boring landscape painting hanging opposite it.

Next is another bedroom, larger than the previous one but still not particularly big. It’s definitely not the master bedroom, Arthur thinks, but he’s pretty sure it’s the room Merlin’s been sleeping in: the quilt is hanging halfway off the bed, the sheet under it wrinkled, and there are clothes on the floor, some neatly folded, others not. There’s a photo frame on the bedside table, nothing fancy, and Arthur crosses the room to look at the photo in it, finds himself staring into his own eyes: he and Merlin, sitting next to each other in a restaurant. Just sitting, not kissing or holding hands, not even all that close to each other, but… together. Definitely together.

Again, Arthur retreats, the unwelcome intruder, and makes his way around the landing to the other door, and that is the master bedroom, complete with a neatly made king size bed, two wardrobes, and another door, probably leading to an en-suite. Arthur doesn’t bother to check, because this room looks as unlived in as the other one didn’t, and it doesn’t make sense. Is this his room and the other one Merlin’s? He’s fairly sure that’s not how most adult relationships work, but if it’s their bedroom why would Merlin not be sleeping in here while Arthur was in hospital?

Maybe they’re not really together, he thinks. Maybe this is an elaborate practical joke pulled by Morgana and Merlin and Uth… okay, not Uther, Arthur’s father doesn’t have a sense of humour, so it’s probably not that, but maybe… Maybe they’re just housemates and Merlin’s secretly been in love with him for years and he’s using the opportunity of Arthur’s coma and the subsequent amnesia to convince everyone that they’re in a relationship and Arthur is actually about to move back into a house with a complete lunatic.

Or maybe Arthur is the lunatic here, because Morgana’s way too smart to fall for something like that, and Uther wouldn’t believe his son was gay unless he heard it from Arthur himself, and…

He leaves his bag in a corner of the landing, closes all the doors he’s just opened, and makes his way downstairs, towards the sound of plates clacking together in the draining rack, the bubble of the kettle, and, just barely, Merlin and Morgana arguing.

“-brought him here!” Merlin says; Arthur knows he shouldn’t listen, should clear his throat and carry on walking, but he doesn’t. Whether he remembers it or not, this is his house and his life, and if Merlin doesn’t want him back in it he has the right to know that.

“He wanted to come home,” Morgana says, patient and excruciatingly calm. “Do you think I would’ve made him come here if he didn’t?”

Merlin doesn’t answer, just carries on clattering crockery, and Morgana sighs; Arthur can picture her, hands on her hips, expression resolute but not angry, then has to remind himself that his sister isn’t twenty anymore, isn’t the same woman his brain is drawing for him.

“Do you not want him here?” she asks, far too simple, far too direct, and Arthur hurts, somewhere deep and previously unknown to him, stung by the possibility and the rejection and the thought that, somehow, who he is now is not as good, not as worthy as the person he was before the accident. “Because we can go, if that’s what you want to happen.”

“Of course I want him here!” Merlin answers, and just as the hurt of a moment ago was something new and surprising, so is the illogical sense of relief he feels now. “God, Morgana, how can you even think that I might not?”

“Then what’s the problem? He wants to come home, you want him back here, everybody wins.”

Merlin doesn’t answer, and doesn’t answer, and doesn’t answer, silent so long that Arthur thinks he isn’t going to say anything at all, but he does, eventually, and so quietly Arthur has to strain to hear him. “I just want him to be happy, Morgana,” he says.

“I know, love,” she answers, no louder, no less firm. “I wouldn’t be here if you didn’t.”

.

Before leaving, Morgana throws her arms around Arthur and drags him down into the world’s longest, strongest hug. “You’re sure?” she asks in a whisper, her mouth to Arthur’s ear, too quiet for Merlin to hear and her back to him so that there’s no chance of his reading her lips.

Arthur hugs her back, briefly meeting Merlin’s too blue gaze over her shoulder before turning his head so that the curtain of her hair hides his answer from Merlin. “It’ll be fine,” he says, because the Morgana he remembers can see through lies the same way normal people can see through glass and saying he’s sure would definitely not be true. Arthur really, _really_ isn’t sure about this now.

Morgana squeezes him once, hard, before letting her arms slide from around him and stepping back. She turns to Merlin, giving him a hug somewhat less intense than the one she gave Arthur, then deposits a red lipstick smudge on his cheek and smiles at them both. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Arthur,” she says. “We’ll go food shopping, give Merlin one thing less to worry about while he’s at work.”

“Okay,” Arthur agrees, clamping his mouth shut as Morgana opens the door, refusing to ask her to take him with her, to put him up in her spare room or on her sofa or in the sodding bathtub if that’s what it takes. He can manage to stay here tonight, one night, and if it’s unbearably awkward he can leave tomorrow, but for the sake of the relationship Morgana says is so wonderful, the relationship Arthur wanted enough to brave his father’s disapproval… Arthur owes it to the self he can’t remember to try. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

.

“I’ve got some marking to finish, Arthur,” Merlin says, and even his tentative, eggshell-walking tone is enough to break the staring match Arthur is having with the closed front door. “I’ll be in the dining room, if you need me for anything.”

He doesn’t wait for a response, maybe knowing that Arthur doesn’t have one to give him.

.

Arthur sits in front of the TV for a bit, channel flicking through nothingness, looping past actors he doesn’t recognise and series that have moved on far too much since he last saw them for them to make any sense now. Eventually, he settles on one of the twenty-four hour news channels, leaving the newsreader to speak soberly in the background about something far more tragic than a little memory loss and moving to examine the shelves of DVDs that surround the TV.

That, too, is difficult, a confused mess of films he’s seen, films he can remember making plans to go see, and films he didn’t even know they were going to make. Four _Harry Potter_ s he’s not seen, the last two of which for a book Arthur hasn’t even read. So many box sets of _Doctor Who_ , faces Arthur doesn’t recognise, a gorgeous redhead and a girl in a red dress and an old man Arthur vaguely recalls being in some political comedy thing, and what the hell happened to Tennant? Superhero films galore, heroes he remembers reading comics about, _Iron Man_ and _Thor_ and _The Avengers_ , way more _X-Men_ films than there were last time Arthur was up and about, _Batman Begins_ and another two after it, and Arthur wants his life back.

He wants to see these films in the cinema, wants to sit in McDonald’s afterwards, arguing over insignificant details and chucking chips at his mates when they won’t admit that they’re wrong. He wants to know how JK Rowling brings Sirius Black back, because no character that awesome deserves something as pitiful as death by curtain. He wants to know how he felt the first time he kissed a boy, if he felt as awkward as he used to kissing Gwen, if he kept it secret, hidden, if he was brave and bold or scared the way he always worried he might be.

He wants someone to tell him it’ll all be okay, to treat him like the kid he still feels like, even if he’s spent the last God knows how many years arguing that he’s not a child.

“Hey,” Merlin says, and if he thinks it’s weird that Arthur’s been kneeling in front of the shelves so long that his knees ache, he doesn’t say anything about it. “I’m turning in for the night, Arthur.” He stops, as though that’s maybe everything he plans on saying – not that Arthur has any idea at all what sort of response he could be after, if it is – then, with a wavering, on-edge smile that matches the hesitance in his voice, Merlin continues. “Do you… Have you thought about where you want to sleep?”

“Oh,” Arthur answers, his mind back on the mystery of the bedrooms, the uncertainty about where his belongings are supposed to go, where _he_ is supposed to go. “So we don’t… share?”

Merlin’s right arm twitches like he wants to reach out to him, a hand on Arthur’s shoulder or a pat on his back or _something_ , but he suppresses it, his left hand wrapping around his right elbow like he’s physically restraining himself. “Arthur, the last birthday you can remember having is your seventeenth,” he says, not unkind but… firm, that’s maybe the best way Arthur can describe him. “I know you don’t know anything about me, but, please, believe me when I tell you that I will never ask anything of you, nor will I ever expect it. Until you tell me otherwise, we’re nothing more than housemates, okay?”

Arthur stares at him, not sure if he’s more confused or relieved. “Okay,” he says, wondering how Merlin really feels, whether he’s the man who told Morgana he wants Arthur here or the one who has just told Arthur he wants nothing from him, whether somehow, maybe, he can be both, the man who wants Arthur to be happy, a man who’ll do whatever it takes to see that he is. “I guess wherever I slept before, if that’s alright?”

“That’s fine, Arthur,” Merlin says, smiling again. “That’s just fine.”

.

It’s strange, living with someone he doesn’t know. Not bad, not even really all that awkward sometimes, but strange. Definitely strange.

Merlin is awake well before Arthur is the first morning, long enough that by the time Arthur has swapped his pyjamas for jeans from the wardrobe and a long sleeved shirt from the top drawer underneath it, the whole house smells of coffee and slightly burnt toast.

“Morning,” Merlin calls, hearing either Arthur’s feet on the stairs or his heart trying to tear itself from his chest, Arthur doesn’t know which is louder. “Coffee?”

 _No_ , Arthur thinks, the refusal his first instinct, but then he remembers the coffee Merlin brought him in the hospital garden. “Yeah, I guess,” he says, not sure it wasn’t just a fluke, not when the one from Morgana a few days ago was utterly disgusting, but he’s willing to give it a try. “Thank you?”

“No problem,” Merlin says, smiling as he plonks a mug on the worktop, proceeding to add what could be a very precise or completely random amount of milk and sugar before picking up the coffee pot. He hands the mug to Arthur when he’s done, then sidles around Arthur and into the hall, returning a minute later with the pile of workbooks that were in the dining room when Arthur went in there. “I’m glad I caught you before leaving,” he says. “I’ve written a shopping list for you and Morgana, but if there’s anything else you can think of… Do you want me to leave you some money, too?”

“It’s fine, I’ll get it,” Arthur answers, then realises there’s a tiny problem with that. “Actually, can you? I don’t remember my PIN.” And he’s going to have to get Morgana to take him to the bank, whichever bank it might be, so he can sort that out, and then there’s passwords for email accounts and whatever else, Amazon and insurance and bills and everything and Arthur doesn’t even know where he’s supposed to start.

“Four, six, nine, two,” Merlin says, like its nothing, like he doesn’t know more about Arthur than Arthur does, and maybe, maybe he starts here. “I need to go, but my number’s in your phone if you need me, and I’ll try not to be too late home this evening.”

“Right,” Arthur says, trying the coffee and, again, not regretting it. “See you tonight.”

.

A newspaper comes through the letterbox that morning and every morning after, Arthur’s name scrawled in pencil at the top right hand corner, along with the house number and street name. Merlin never reads them, but they’re there, a week and a bit’s worth of copies sat in the paper recycling bin, longer than Arthur’s been awake.

Merlin doesn’t say anything about it, and Arthur doesn’t ask.

Eventually, he starts reading them.

.

The thing is, Merlin knows everything about Arthur, his favourite foods and how he takes his coffee, where he works and what drinks will give him the worst hangover. He knows Arthur’s birthday and his mother’s maiden name, when his car insurance is due and what he bought people for Christmas last year and therefore really shouldn’t get them again this time.

And maybe Arthur could live with that, could be okay with the way Merlin looks at him and talks to him and feels about him, if only he felt the same in return.

.

 _When I remember_ , Arthur tells himself.

When he remembers, Arthur can make up for how awful he’s being now, can make amends for flinching when Merlin gets too close to him, for cooking him food he can’t eat and not going with him to his mother’s for Christmas. He can apologise for not being interested when Merlin goes endlessly on about the kids he teaches and for the argument they have when Merlin accidentally spoils the first season of _Game of Thrones_ (“please, Arthur, don’t get so attached this time, you’ll be devastated when he dies”) mere minutes after insisting Arthur watch it.

When he remembers, not if.

.

He goes back to work at the beginning of January, just mornings to begin with, easing back into it. Merlin drops him off at the office on his way to school and Arthur spends the next few hours doing intern level stuff, researching cases and filing and whatever else he can think of that doesn’t require the degree he can’t remember getting.

He knows his boss doesn’t like it, but until Arthur gets back what he’s missing, he’d rather not be the only thing standing between an innocent man and a life sentence.

.

 _When I remember_ , Arthur thinks, as he and Merlin go on dates that aren’t dates and take turns cooking and washing up, as he vacuums the bedroom that Merlin hasn’t set foot in since Arthur moved back in, when he rummages through his bedside table for an odd sock’s lost brother and finds a half-empty box of condoms instead.

He wonders if Merlin’s telling himself the same thing.

.

The doctor holds Arthur’s most recent brain scan up so that the fluorescent bars on the ceiling shine through it. The lines on her worn face deepen as she frowns, and she pushes her chair back out from under her desk, scooping up the folder of all his other scans and crossing to the light board (Arthur’s sure that’s not what it’s really called, but he’s also pretty sure he doesn’t really care all that much). The scans get pinned up one after the other, this doctor occasionally shuffling through them to find the one chronologically next, and then she steps back and joins Arthur in staring at them.

He lost count ages ago of the number of doctors he’s seen, all the appointments he’s made and scans he’s had done, but he didn’t realise it was as many as this.

“Well, Mr Pendragon,” she says, apparently seeing more in the images than the waste of Uther’s money that is all Arthur knows is going on there. “What you see before you is a perfectly healthy brain. There’s no evidence of scarring or dead tissue, nothing like I’d expect to see from someone who was comatose as long as you were. Physically, there is nothing wrong with you.”

Every response Arthur can think of is either scathing, sarcastic or otherwise inadvisable, so he doesn’t say anything.

The doctor taps her pen against her teeth, the click of it barely audible, and her frown deepens further. “According to your file, you’ve also been assessed for a number of psychological therapies known to be an effective treatment for memory loss, none of which have seen any results in your case.”

“No,” Arthur says, then waits for her to continue, his brain dragging over the endless bouts of cognitive therapies and hypnotherapy and things with music and scents and who knows what the hell else, all of which were bloody useless.

“I’m going to be frank with you, Mr Pendragon,” she says, after a painfully long wait. “Medically speaking, you are as healthy as you are ever likely to be. We can keep you coming in for scans, we can continue recommending therapies, and there are a number of experimental drugs we could consider, but, in my professional opinion, there is little point in doing so. Either your memories will return, or they will not, and neither you nor anyone else can do anything to change that.”

All Arthur’s thoughts sputter to a halt, a petrol car filled with diesel and deeply unhappy with the situation. “So,” he manages eventually, “what you mean is that you think this could be permanent.”

The look she gives him is just as long and just as assessing as the one she gave the scans. “What I mean, Mr Pendragon, is that if you live your life waiting for the day you remember everything, you may well be waiting for the rest of your life.”

.

“I’m making a cup of tea,” Merlin says, putting his knife and fork together on his empty plate and standing up. “Do you want one?”

Arthur looks at his own plate, at the scrambled mess of spaghetti and meatballs before him, almost untouched, and wonders how long it is since he last took a mouthful: thirty seconds, five minutes, eight years…

“I had another appointment today, after work,” he says, looking up, straight into Merlin’s eyes. “The doctor said… She said my memories might never return.”

Merlin looks back at him, calm and unflinching. “Okay,” he says, so solid and certain that Arthur wonders if he even heard him. “So is that a yes or a no to tea?”

“Merlin, are you listening to me? I might never remember you.”

Merlin puts the plate back down, his gaze still not wavering from Arthur’s. “I’m listening, Arthur,” he says. “It’s just… My mum was never a big church-goer or anything like that, but… She told me, this one time, I was maybe eight or nine, I guess, not long after my dad died. I wasn’t doing too well, arguing with her all the time and getting in trouble at school, and she told me that everyone gets one miracle in their lifetime. She said you never know what it is until you get it, but that when you do, you don’t question it. Just accept it for what it is, and enjoy it while you have it, because you never know how long it’s going to last.”

“I don’t understand,” Arthur says, because it’s probably better than _what does that have to do with anything?_

Merlin smiles, and Arthur has never really thought too much about whether smiles can be honest or not. Genuine or fake, yes, but this is more than that, more than anything, and Merlin’s smile is inescapably honest.

“I got my miracle when you woke up, Arthur,” he says, all his skin flayed away until he’s just muscles and bone and raw emotion on display. “I’m not stupid enough to think I deserve another one.”

 _You do_ , Arthur thinks, because he might not remember him but he’s seen a lot, these last few months, and there’s no doubt in his mind that Merlin is a good man, so much better than Arthur is. He’s kind and smart and funny and he hasn’t pushed, has given Arthur space and time and everything he could possibly want without once having to be asked for it, knows what Arthur needs before he does. There have been no ultimatums, no expectations, just unrelenting support and strength, even though Arthur has been awkward at best and downright awful at worst, and he wishes so, so much that he could give Merlin what he needs in return.

He wishes so badly that he could remember, that he could know just what it is that he’s done to merit such absolute, unwavering devotion from this man. He wishes he could remember the way he’s supposed to feel for Merlin, wishes he could be the man Merlin thinks he is, but he can’t.

He just can’t.

“Oh,” Arthur says; Merlin’s told him before not to apologise for his amnesia, so telling him how impossibly sorry he is probably won’t go down well, but Arthur can’t bring himself to ask how much longer Merlin thinks they should wait, not when he’s thinking of what the doctor told him. He’s already lost so much time, doesn’t know how much more he wants to throw away hoping it’ll come back. “I guess I will have that cup of tea, then?”

“Great,” Merlin answers, his voice light again, though Arthur can still hear that terrible depth of emotion in it, still see it in his eyes, and he can’t do this, not anymore. “Finish your dinner, then. I’ll bring the drinks through.”

Despite his lack of appetite, Arthur obeys; he doesn’t want an argument, not when he’s already going to break Merlin’s heart

.

In the morning, the last morning, Arthur drinks the coffee Merlin makes him, reads the paper as they eat their toast, and smiles as Merlin says goodbye, as Merlin tells him he’ll see him that evening.

Then he packs his bags.

.

He still sees him, sometimes, just in ordinary, average situations, Morgana’s thirtieth birthday party –

And of course Merlin was going to be invited, Arthur knows how much he means to her, but that doesn’t change how awful he feels when they meet in the doorway to her house, Merlin just arriving, alone, Arthur about to leave, decidedly not.

“What’s up, Arthur?” Kay asks when Arthur freezes, and the words are innocuous but the tone is such that Merlin crumples in on himself, small and fragile, the way Arthur imagines he looked when he got home and realised the house was empty, realised Arthur was never coming back.

“Why the hell didn't you tell me when he was getting here, Morgana?” Arthur demands, because guilt always turns him into the world’s biggest bastard, and he’s so very aware of the way Merlin just stands there staring at him as Morgana tears him a new one and Arthur shouts back because it’s easier than admitting he deserves it, that he’s the one in the wrong.

– or gate crashing Gwen and Lancelot’s sixth anniversary dinner –

“I’m staying with Uncle Merlin tonight,” says Yasmin, swinging on Arthur’s arm like he’s a newly invented piece of playground equipment, her feet kicking wildly through the air as she smiles like only a five-year-old can. “Do you know Uncle Merlin, Arthur?” she asks so innocently, too young to remember all the times before the accident when – Morgana says – Merlin and Arthur babysat for her when Gwen and Lance needed a break. “He’s way more fun than you, the bestest uncle ever, you should meet him. We’re going to make a cake and watch _Frozen_ and he lets me eat ice cream and stay up aaaaaall night and you should come with us. Mummy, can Uncle Arthur come stay at Uncle Merlin’s with me and Toby?”

“Maybe another time,” Lancelot says, ever the diplomat, his expression offering the apology his words don’t. “Come on, princess; give Arthur his arm back so that we can pack your jammies, okay?”

Yasmin chirps her agreement, still jabbering about how awesome Merlin is as she skips down the hall at Lancelot’s side, and it’s envy and his shitty, _shitty_ week that has Arthur saying, “Are you really sure Merlin’s responsible enough to take care of two kids all night?” just as the front door opens.

– because in a single week he’s both been dumped yet again and managed to lose a case that could have made his career – again.

Arthur still sees him, and every fucking time he shoves his foot in his mouth, says something unforgivably awful or unbelievably stupid and Merlin just takes it and takes it, never even protests as Arthur, his _miracle_ , tramples all over his heart.

He knows doctors say how incredible it is they both survived the accident, but that doesn’t stop Arthur mourning the man who died in it.


End file.
